Turn on your light - an excerpt by Ben Okri The new era is already here: Here the new time begins anew. The new era happens every day, Every day is a new world, A new calendar. All great moments, all great eras, Are just every moment And every day writ large. Thousands of years of loving, failing, killing, Creating, surprising, oppressing, And thinking ought now to start To bear fruit, to deliver their rich harvest. Will you be at the harvest, Among the gatherers of new fruits? Then you must begin today to remake Your mental and spiritual world, And join the warriors and celebrants Of freedom, realisers of great dreams. You can't remake the world Without remaking yourself. Each new era begins within. It is an inward event, With unsuspected possibilities For inner liberation. We could use it to turn on Our inward lights. We could use it to use even the dark And negative things positively. We could use the new era To clean our eyes, To see the world differently, To see ourselves more clearly. Only free people can make a free world. Infect the world with your light. Help fulfill the golden prophecies. Press forward the human genius. Our future is greater than our past. on the line millennium poem The Awakening Age, by Ben Okri O ye who travel the meridian line, May the vision of a new world within you shine. May eyes that have lived with poverty's rage, See through to the glory of the awakening age. For we are all richly linked in hope, Woven in history, like a mountain rope. Together we can ascend to a new height, Guided by our heart's clearest light. When perceptions are changed there's much to gain, A flowering of truth instead of pain. There's more to a people than their poverty; There's their work, wisdom, and creativity. Along the line may our lives rhyme, To make a loving harvest of space and time. 'Draw' He told the newspaper: "I'm not taking sides. I'm going to be a Venutian on the day. "But if I weren't a Venutian I would prefer a draw." The poem in full: The game is what it's all about, Let's give it our best shout. Everywhere else they're losing the plot, But the mystery of the game is all we've got. And so play the game with a happy soul, Mastering the game is the true goal. All it takes is the wisdom of one, not eleven, And we can live as if in heaven. An excerpt from In Arcadia by Ben Okri What does it matter that love is lost? Love is a song that trembles in the air and is caught by another. Love is a sweet melody that haunts those that like your singing. Let it go, and it will come again in another form. If you don't let it go, it can never return, for a vessel that is full cannot be filled. But a vessel that is empty can be filled with rich new wine that you never tasted before. And the new wine doesn't destroy the memory of the old, but enriches your palate and your sense of having lived much. Unused palates don't know good wine from bad. So, my weeping dear, come with me on the adventures across these mountians and let us both sing of our lovely loves lost that will come again from our singing. If you have emptied yourself in rich loving you will be ready for richer loving still. For loving is one of the most beautiful labours that ever the heart invented. But what does labour create, what does it do? Does it make you rich, does it farm your lands, does it make a painting, does it make you famous, does it make you beautiful? It does all these things, but it does something better still - it makes a life, it sweetens a road travelled, it charms time, and gives us much to think about when the journey is ended. Yes, my dear, loving makes a life, it makes a melody of a life, which the soul goes on singing long after the sun has set. So let us go, singing of our love, and not be afraid that we have lost it, but glad that we once were loved, and once were happy. For, what with living and dying, our happiness will prove to be the brightest place in the painting. Lets leave this shade and set out for the festivities, where we are young again. Ben Okri: Lines in potentis One of the magic centres Of the world; One of the world's Dreaming places. Ought to point the way To the world. Here lives the great music Of humanity The harmonisation of different Histories, cultures, geniuses, And dreams. Ought to shine to the world And tell everyone That history, though unjust, Can yield wiser outcomes. And out of bloodiness Can come love Out of slave-trading Can come a dance of souls, Out of division, unity; Out of chaos, fiestas. City of tradition, conquests, And variety; City of commerce and the famous river, Tell everyone that the future Is yet unmade. Many possibilities live in your cellars. Nightmares and illuminations. Boredom and brilliance. Tomorrow's music sleeps In undiscovered orchestras, In unmade violins, In coiled strings. Spring waits by the lakes, Listening to the unfurling daffodils. Summer lingers with the hyperborean worms, Awaiting an astonishing command From the all-seeing eye of Ra. Tomorrow's music sleeps In our fingers, In our awakening souls, The blossom of our spirit, The suggestive buds of our hearts. Tell everyone the idea Is to function together, As good musicians would In undefined future orchestras. Let the energy of commerce flow. Let the vision of art heal. Technology, provide the tools. Workers of the world Re-make the world Under the guidance of inspiration And wise laws. Create the beautiful music Our innermost happiness suggests. Delight the future. Create happy outcomes. And while Autumn dallies With the West wind And the weeping nightingales And while Winter clears its sonorous throat At the Antipodean banquets Preparing for a speech of hoarfrost And icicles conjured from living breath, I want you to tell everyone Through trumpets played with The fragrance of roses That a mysterious reason Has brought us all together, Here, now, under the all-seeing eye of the sun. For Martin Luther King They will not be satisfied Till they have had more, These children of the dream, These dreaming children draped In all the colours of the sun. Till they have had more, They who are black and white And all colours of the spectrum, And all colours of the dream, They will not be satisfied Till they have had more. What more do they want? They want the earth and the stars And the beautiful heavens. They want to be free And they want the possibilities That freedom brings. And also Freedom's weight and dark side. They want to love who they want. They do not want to be defined. They do not want to be limited. They do not want to beg for Their humanity, or the right to be Creative, or different, or unexpected Or wild, or surprising, or defying Of boundaries. They do not want Condescension, or assumptions. They want to rebel, even against Themselves. They want to celebrate, Even that which didn't celebrate them. They want to love the best fruits Of the earth, in music, in art, and In dreams. They want to be the best That freedom promises, without explanation Or apologies. They want to astonish, Casually, like angels do. They want to amaze, Simply, like geniuses do. They want To fail, bravely, like explorers do. They want to quest, nobly, like Passionate pilgrims do. Nothing can Be too much or too little for them To dream, and to accomplish, if it Belongs to the possibility of being human, The unfathomed magic of the unmeasured Spirit. And so they let freedom Sing into their new transformations Of self everyday. They are the new Warriors and masters of the earth. They are the best of what has emerged From time's sufferings and history's love. They are the children of the dream. And no prison of mind or steel Will hold them down any more. They have burst open the door. We are all children of the dream. Dancing with change "Change is good, but no change Is better" It rang through the great hall As it has resounded silently Through the ages. It rang past the faces Of stern masters and poets And lords of learning, Asleep in their hidden academies. Change is good; Newton unveiled the unchanging laws And freed us into new sight. This inheritance has become one Under eras of division and strife. Havens and deep places Have to be protected from the raging Winds and the glowing deserts. The corridors have widened: Fields have given way to new trees And new cries of ecstasy; Dreaming spires no longer dream The same things; Monoliths hold books now, and philosophies Sprung from harsh evolutions Wither thought; Freedom has given birth to unfreedom Reason has triumphed Over the unbounded creative spirit. The air is dryer where no change Is better. Old ways kept old, protected from The devils of the gate, Turn the bones white, and stiffen The mind's luminous dance Into new ages, and happier flight. Change is a god that Heraclitus Saw in the ancient river. And as we keep things the same The river works beneath us The god works his gentle and sad ironies On our eyes hidden from encroaching Devils at the gate. The river runs; the fields sprout Strange new mushrooms, Libraries yield new books In the charged margins of the old. And reason, trapped in philosophies Held in iron, turns on itself Like a caged tiger, and prowls The diminished boundaries Of a shrinking world, Shrinking because of the horror Of the devils at the gates. Song is sweet; music prays to change; Poets pray to the goddess of surprise; And mathematicians would be unmoored In those realms where no change Is a wild river of factors. Love is seduced by change; Itself unchanging. Time, serene, remains indifferent To our iron will, our willed philosophies. The world grows or shrinks Of its own necessity, its own vision; The river makes all things dance To a music they never understood At the time. And the giants who built walls Meant to be proof against Time And the desert ravages Found in their sleep That the walls had become change Had moved, had dissolved, had sprouted The feared things; Or worse, that the feared things Had seeped in underfoot, Or through the air, Had changed the frontiers Of their rigid dialogue. Walls invite invasion. Walls end up trapping within The demons meant to be kept out; For the demons merely turn into The giants, grow in them, like a silent cancer. Oases attract the eyes of the hungry. Protected places, luminated by fame, Attract the rage of the unlucky, The unfortunate, the dispossessed, And all those who are shut out In the outer darknesses of our age. All around, leonids, planets, stars Are whirling; The cosmos shrinks and grows, Dreams and flows Under the immutable spell of change; All around, lives collapse, empires Quietly fall and cave in From natural exhaustion, Dynasties give up the ghost of ambition, Towers rage with the unmeasured cadences Of festering hunger, Continents drift apart, Peoples no longer recognise one another And wars eat up fathers and frail sisters, And houses fall on one another, And roads break into unhallowed speech. It is natural to want calm places Where stillness dwells Where cool waters flow Where concerts radiate music and grace Where the mind contemplates crystals, Pure forms, glowing legends, complex melodies And books that keep their hidden thoughts In the silence of their musty pages. It is natural to want serenity And flowering gardens of lovely symmetry And Virgil's spreading beeches And the lost happy times of the wise ones Who were wise in the knowledge That the mind cannot comprehend all, But at least can smile at infinity. But the river flows, and so must we. Change is the happy god that Heraclitus Saw in the golden river. Spread illumination through this darkening world; Spread illumination through this darkening world. No change is good, but dancing Gracefully with change is better. Short Stories: Mysteries Walking the shadowy streets of London at night with a friend, a man discovers a secret world full of intrigue and symbols ² there for those willing to look Ben Okri We were sitting at a restaurant, waiting to be photographed, and so a conversation was begun. We were being photographed to help raise the profile of a theatre charity event. The actors were in a play about Mahler¶s conversion from Judaism to Christianity in order to get the job of senior conductor in Vienna. And so it wasn¶t that unlikely when, in a context now forgotten, I said: ³There are people who believe that we have two bodies, one visible and the other invisible.´ For the first time the older actor, famous for playing an old curmudgeon on television, turned to me and registered my existence. It was as if I had been invisible and my utterance had rendered me visible. In fact, the actor lit up. ³Two bodies, you say?´ ³Yes.´ ³How so?´ ³Well, they ask us to consider the amputee who still feels the missing limb, who still feels the arm is still there.´ ³But the arm isn¶t there.´ ³That¶s right. They say the visible arm isn¶t there, but the invisible one remains. This suggests some mysterious part of us that may survive death.´ ³But does it feel?´ ³If we have two bodies, it follows that we have two brains. The visible hand feels through the visible brain, and the invisible hand feels through the invisible brain, what we might rightly call the mind, the subconscious mind.´ The actor appeared to ponder this, but said nothing further. Next to us was a novelist, paying keen attention. Her next novel was going to be about life after death. Not long afterwards the photographer appeared and we all gathered for the publicity shots. The conversation passed on to more pragmatic things. ))))) A mysterious pattern lurks behind the facade of everyday life. One of its tantalising threads was revealed to me the next time I saw the actor. It was at the charity event itself, after the theatre. The production, though a little bare, was nonetheless enjoyable. The novelist who had been with us had walked out of the play before the interval. One or two of the guests hadn¶t enjoyed it as much as I did. My taste in these matters is never too snobbish. If I am diverted, stimulated and delighted a little, and if there is some humour, and some gem of profundity, something to think about, I am generally contented. A great play is a miracle of the mind. One mustn¶t ask too much of living artists; too much straining and they make life dull. ))))) I spoke to several people at the party, and engaged a lively moment with a Jewish couple, debating which was our favourite play of the last century. They both spoke passionately for Arthur Miller¶s The Crucible. I put in a spirited case for Chekhov¶s The Cherry Orchard, because of its perfect poetic narrative, the mysterious parable at its heart and its deceptive transparency. Not long afterwards I met the actor again and let it be known that I might have a part for him in a play of mine which had been maturing in my cupboard for 20 years. The actor seemed surprised and wondered if I¶d like to come and see his play. ³Your play?´ I asked. ³One I¶m directing.´ ³I¶d be delighted.´ He said he would give me a call to book the tickets and arrange a date. A week passed and he called and suggested a Wednesday. But this was cancelled because it was press night, which he finds stressful. A few days later my visit was set for the next Wednesday. He thought dinner afterwards would be a good idea, and I accepted. I took the opportunity to tell him I was bringing a female friend whose name was Isis. ))))) It was a time when the world was uneasy with the war in Afghanistan; when America, in response to the destruction of the twin towers in New York by terrorists, was dropping bombs on Kabul. The world felt dangerous and raw; and everyone feared terrorist attacks on major western cities. It was a strange time indeed. It was the fire birth of a new century. In this nervous air, we met at the Royal Court Theatre bar. We had a drink and went up to see the play. It was a series of three monologues with two characters: a trying medium. The experience was uncomfortable, but the play was not without some feeling. Afterwards we converged downstairs for a quick drink, and left for dinner at the Como Lario. ))))) Dinner was delightful. Our host, the elderly actor, was pleasant. He was a good listener, and a careful cultivator of his energies. He was a Scot, as it turned out; and fortunate indeed to have found national fame late in life. This made him comfortable to be with. For as fame had come to him with his character and philosophy already formed, his mind was not easily impressed by noisy or showy things. He was, in fact, a pragmatist, who enjoyed a good laugh. The loud brash moneyed young of the City occupied two tables next to us, and the actor flashed at them his famous curmudgeon scowl often during dinner. We talked of many things. We talked of childhoods. We talked about famous plays that were now dated and deserting us like friends we were losing. We talked about shows we had liked or hated. But we didn¶t speak of mysteries. We talked about the play I had in mind for him to act in. This interested him. I promised to work on it and be in touch in a month or two. Dinner came to an end with cappuccino and teas. He gallantly picked up the bill, and we strolled out into a chilly October night. He offered to drop us home in a taxi we had hailed, but we declined three times. We exchanged hugs and warm goodbyes, and he left with his signature scowl in his smile. ))))) We had declined his offer of a lift because we wanted to walk. This was a passion of ours, me and my friend Isis. We walk whenever we can; and we do it for the simple pleasure of noticing the many ways of being alive. The air was fresh. It had rained. A cool wind blew. The streets were quiet. We decided to walk a while, then catch a bus home. We took a side street. We talked about the play, philosophies, events of the day. We noticed the alignment of the stars in the dark depths of the sky. We came to a bus stop and waited for a bus that might take us close to home. We had far to go. We were waiting when, suddenly, quietly, a slick black car appeared in front of us. It seemed to have come out of nowhere, like an apparition, or something conjured from a genie¶s bottle. There was a smooth but slightly sinister-looking young man at the wheel. He seemed either German or Italian. Before he spoke, however, a bouncer in a nightclub along that deserted street stepped out into the lighted entrance and became visible. He was thick-set and in a black suit. He looked in our direction. The man in the car wanted to know the way to Sloane Street. ³I don¶t know,´ I said. ³We are not from around here,´ Isis said. ³Sloane Street,´ he said, again. ³Ask that chap across the road,´ I said, pointing to the bouncer. The young man, sinister, smooth, in his slick car, didn¶t follow my indication. For some reason he lingered. He watched us. He smiled in a curious way. He waited much longer than he needed to, as if he wanted something, or was giving us a chance to want something. Then, with a definite tone of voice, Isis said: ³Try someone else.´ That seemed to do it. That broke the spell. He glided away just as mysteriously as he had appeared. We didn¶t really see his car drive off. We simply found ourselves in a slightly different space. We moved on to other thoughts. It was only later that it gained significance. ))))) We stood around in that new space for a while. Then a sense of pointlessness came over me. ³What are we waiting here for?´ I wondered aloud. ³Nothing,´ Isis said. ³Let¶s walk. The air is good.´ We walked to the square. Something had pulled us there. It was late. We stood in the square for a long time, not knowing why. We were listening, staring at the buildings, the empty taxis, the gleaming streets, staring into the night, waiting for nothing. We had a choice of roads to take. ³Let¶s go towards Knightsbridge,´ I said ³Okay. It¶s that way,´ Isis said, pointing down a street which she later realised was Sloane Street. ³No, let¶s go down this one,´ I said, indicating the street just ahead of us. ³It looks more lively.´ We crossed the road and walked on. There was something beautiful about the night. The wind was lovely, and there was a perfect mood in the air. Harmony reigned between me and Isis. She seemed happy. She seemed to love the wandering mood we were in. It was like being on an Italian holiday, roaming a strange city at night, with a sense of wonder and romance. We came to another bus stop, and found that one of the buses that stopped there would take us in a homeward direction. Some time passed. We had wanted to talk, but we were silent. Walking was our original aim, but there we were again, lingering at that bus stop. That was my doing. I was just standing there, feeling and not knowing what I felt, seeing and not knowing what I saw. Then I noticed a double-decker bus in the distance. I said nothing. I gazed at the stars, not thinking. Then Isis said: ³C1.´ I looked up. I had heard her say ³see one´. Then I saw the bus, a single-decker, with the legend ³C1´ on its destination panel. I said: ³I see two.´ ³What?´ ³I see two buses,´ I said, trying to be witty. The original phrase I had heard resonated in my mind. The bus picked up a passenger. As it left its door was still open, its driver an African. The double-decker bus I had seen in the distance was unnaturally delayed. It seemed to remain at the same spot, at a red light, in Sloane Square. It stood there for a small eternity. We were puzzled. It was red in the night. ))))) ³Goodness! Look at that church!´ Isis said suddenly. I looked up and saw the church. It stood at the end of a short street opposite the bus stop. It was very beautiful, but seemed out of place. It was the kind of quaint church you might come upon as you wandered at night in a small Italian town, if your senses are open to wonder. Its modest elongated dome made an enchanting shape in the night sky. It was tenderly lit and shone in the dark. It had the beauty and incongruity of a dream. ³It¶s strange,´ Isis said. ³It doesn¶t seem to belong here.´ She was quite taken with the church, its indefinable quality, something glimpsed in a vision, linked to the spirit of romance. The church, though beautiful, did not have the same quality for me that it had for Isis. I received its presence with simplicity, without amazement, almost coolly. Something was missing. Something wasn¶t there. This is the reason why I found myself looking where I shouldn¶t be looking. And then I saw it. Then the church gained a new dimension. There it was in the middle of the street, as clear as an illumination. It was a perfect cross, beautiful in perspective, a mystery of the golden proportion. It had been made out of manholes. Who would make manholes into so marvellous a cross, in the middle of the street, near a bus stop, leading the eye to that unusually situated church? Isis cried out in wonder when I drew her attention to the cross and how it directed the gaze. ))))) In a world where we notice so little because we have lost the mystery with which the world is made, some signs are meant for those inclined to see them. We stared at the conjunction and pondered many possibilities in silence. We had an odd sense of a secret world at work in our world. We had a sense of many other things besides, too incredible but perfectly possible. Notions that can¶t be shared except with the like-minded. After an unaccountable delay, the double-decker bus appeared. It was empty. We got on and climbed upstairs. We took seats at the large front windows, and gazed at a world full of things we don¶t see. Regard all phenomena as dreams, suggests an ancient Tibetan manuscript.